


Memento Mei

by Askance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/pseuds/Askance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Plan is good, the Will is good, and all of this will be made right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mei

_January 24, 1979_

_In the unending chorus, something changed._

 

_  
_

* * *

_January 24, 1979_

He was…small. Sour-faced. For all intents and purposes, not a remarkable baby—wide green eyes, dark tufts of hair, already an air of sarcasm and sweetness hovering round his tight-curled body.

The angel was young (as angels go), and nervous. He hesitated to call it an "assignment," this guardianship, but what else could one call it? And this was his first.

He was a Power. Not quite the lowest on the hierarchy, not nearly the highest. It was an awkward position, and not one easily escaped; and so this child, this baby, was a welcome change of pace. Powers did not typically take on a human charge, but then, he'd never been a particularly typicalPower.

The angel's name was Castiel.  _"My cover is God," protector of the traveler, and now_ —he thought, staring down at the squirming, blinking bundle that was to be his purpose and duty for the rest of its life— _personal guardian angel of Dean Winchester._

He smiled, as much as a being of pure spirit can smile, and resisted the urge to touch the baby's nose, just softly. The little thing stared up at him—for the very pure and very young, Castiel had been told, could see his kind—with wet green eyes, fascinated, or perhaps confused.

Castiel decided, quietly, to himself, that he was going to like this child.

 

 

* * *

_April 24, 1983_

Human recreation had never made much sense to Castiel—especially not from a divine distance—and now, watching his little charge and similarly-sized children bolt around in the dirt, swinging what looked like metal sticks and shouting after tiny leather balls as they flew through the air, he was no closer to any kind of understanding.

If anything, he was more confused than before.

Nonetheless, he hovered—ethereal and invisible—between the shoulders of Mary and John Winchester, watching four-year-old Dean lunging for the softball far into the outfield. Being the guardian of a small child was interesting, if nothing else. Certainly never tiring. Dean was always getting into minor scrapes these days, and Castiel was forever making sure that he never hurt himself too badly: surreptitiously making the grass where he landed after falling from his tricycle a little softer than it had been a moment before, planting a seed of wariness in the boy's head so that he avoided the nasty dog next door.

Dean threw the ball across the field to the pitcher, and then looked up and waved; for a startled moment, Castiel thought the gesture was intended for him, but then Mary—her stomach swollen and her face beaming—lifted her arm in reply. Her other hand rested on her belly, as if comforting the unborn child within.

Dean grinned, his gap-tooth smile bright even from across the dirt and grass. He turned and made for his position in left field.

Castiel felt the twist of the ankle mere seconds before it happened; Dean tripped, stumbled, and reflexively the angel raised an invisible hand and slowed his fall.

He winced—the distant crack came anyway—but at least the boy had managed to catch himself before he hit the ground face-first. Little things. Past the bases, he heard Dean give a little yowl of frustration and pain.

"Oh, goodness," Mary said, lifting a hand to her lips; John stood up and edged his way through the bleachers, signaling to the umpire to pause the game. Dean was already sitting up in the grass, knees stained green, cradling his injured foot, but he seemed more shocked than hurt. Tears were running down his face like afterthoughts.

Castiel felt slightly guilty; it wasn't his place to interfere as much as he did, but seeing Dean frightened or in pain was…difficult. Besides, what could a rescued ankle really hurt?

Touching down on the bleachers beside Mary, who was watching intently as Dean's T-ball coach walked him to the dugout, Castiel sent a little wave of comfort his charge's way, for good measure.

 

 

* * *

_November 2, 1983_

It hurt, knowing what was coming.

Anxious and upset, Castiel watched as the Winchesters finished their supper of hamburgers and potato chips, Mary laughing as Dean recounted the adventure he'd been on that day in the backyard's Great Unknown, infant Sam watching the bowl of chips being passed round the table. Every so often the baby's soft eyes would glance in Castiel's direction, to where he stood behind Dean's chair, and the angel would—by some instinct or sadness—look away.

Heaven's whispers had told him quite clearly to be on his guard that night. Nothing was to happen to Dean; Castiel was to do everything in his power to keep the boy safe. That was his part in the Plan. That was all he needed to know.  _The Plan was good, it was God's Will, and it was his duty to play his role._

Still—knowing that after tonight, this family would be broken and scattered, the angel was saddened. He was Dean's guardian, but nevertheless he'd grown fond of Mary and John, and even little Sam, who sometimes cooed and reached for him whenever he drew near.

It would be painful, but there was nothing to be done.

And so Castiel kept close to his charge as the family parted for bed, a few hours later. Mary took Sam up to the second floor for his bath, John turned on the television and then ignored it in favour of the newspaper, and Dean—who had been told to dress for bed—instead sat down in the middle of his floor and began to enact an intense chase scene with a toy fire truck and a little black car, making soft siren noises under his breath.

"Dean? I can hear you in there, and that doesn't sound much like getting ready for bed!"

"I am!" Dean called back; the hallway outside his bedroom was lit with soft yellow light from the bathroom.

"Get ready for  _bed_ , Dean," came John's voice from downstairs, and, now bidden by the two highest authorities in his life, Dean sighed, rolled the fire truck and car under his bed, and half-heartedly pulled a pair of pyjama pants from the dresser.

It was almost too much for Castiel to bear. He stood by the window, feeling restless, wanting nothing more than to snatch the boy and his entire family straight from the jaws of danger. In only a few hours everything would come to pass. Heaven's whispers were becoming louder, more jumbled, in anticipation.

With a heavy heart—or whatever he had that passed for one—Castiel watched Mary and John kiss their eldest son good-night, and tuck the covers tight round his body (just the way he liked), and turn out the light. He heard them moving softly past Sam's nursery, where the mobile turned softly to a fading music-box tune, where the baby slept in peace and security.

The angel pulled his presence close to himself and took his place beside Dean's bed.  _No use in letting it know I'm here, when it comes,_ he thought—and then,  _oh, Father, this is too much._

He watched Dean's eyes flutter closed, leaden with drowsiness; he focused his gaze on the angel's kiss above the boy's lip, his entire being filled with sorrow for what was to come.

A few hours later, he heard Mary in the hallway near Sam's nursery; and then, after the creaking of the door, heard her say, "John?"

Like a harbinger of death itself, the angel smelled sulfur.

 

 

* * *

_June 9, 1985_

"Can you hit those bottles, do you think?"

The air was thick with mosquitoes and atmosphere; above, flat-based clouds warned of a thunderstorm in the heat of the day. Dean and his father stood in a dead-grassed clearing surrounded by warped green trees, and on the rickety remains of a fence along the forest border was a line of empty beer bottles, labels torn off and glistening crystal-brown in the harsh summer sunlight.

Dean, six years old, nodded, and lifted his father's old sawed-off shotgun to his shoulder. He closed one eye, squinted the other; placed his finger on the trigger and aimed for the first bottle in the line.

Although he had no breath to hold, the angel waiting in the air behind him held it anyway.

A succession of seven shots rang out, precise and sharp, and one by one the bottles on the fence burst apart in a shower of dark glass.

John smiled, and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Perfect."

Castiel—unseen, breathless, and feeling strangely proud—smiled as well.

 

 

* * *

_March 19, 1991_

In the motel room, in the darkening sunlight of early evening, Dean sat with a shotgun in his lap and a hacksaw in his hand.

It was very quiet. John and Sam were out—there had been a fight between the two earlier that afternoon, and penitential ice cream was in order—and Dean was left to his own devices, alone.

But of course, he was never  _entirely_ alone.

He'd grown. Filled out. He was still lean, but muscular now, more defined. Still a child and almost a man. Castiel was continually fascinated by the growth of the boy's body, by the way the muscles hardened under his skin and his fingers grew long and calloused and skillful. Dean wore his hair shorter now, cropped close to his skull, and his face had grown closed, tight, focused.

There was a bruise under his right eye from an argument with John the night before. Castiel had kept his distance. He was much more adept at softening a landing spot than he was at preventing human violence.

Now, Dean steadied the shotgun on his leg, and took to it with the hacksaw. Dust motes swirled in the wake of his elbow, and the sound of grating metal-on-metal filled the room; Castiel stood in a patch of dirty, dying sunlight and watched.

For the first few minutes, the boy simply sawed, back and forth, rhythmic and monotonous; but then something in his face crumpled (and the bruise, dark purple, melded with his rising blood), and he furrowed his brow, and worked harder, harder, faster, until the saw was practically screaming through the shotgun barrel and his knuckles were white as ivory against his skin.

His emotions were like sirens, and Castiel felt them like an arrow through the chest he didn't quite have—anger, sadness, pain, longing,  _longing for a place to call home that wasn't a shitty motel room and longing for his father's affection and longing for answers to what the hell had happened to his life—_

With only a moment's hesitation the angel flickered across the room, and put a hand to his charge's forehead, willing prayers for peace and acceptance into his straining, sorrowing soul.

One more half-hearted movement and Dean stopped working against the barrel; he sighed, and closed his eyes, and breathed. A few stray, weary teardrops slipped from his eyes, but he smeared them away, and looked down at the gun—its barrel gaping now, only a few scant centimeters of metal left to hack away—and then put it to the side.

For a moment he looked around him, as if something in the air had been disturbed, but the evening sunlight was still seething through the heavy pale curtains, and traffic was still shooting by on the highway outside, and so Dean ran a hand over his face, put away the hacksaw, and picked up the remote control, flicking on the old brown television as he collapsed onto the sofa.

Pleased, but no less concerned, Castiel resumed his place at a gentle distance.

He decided that exerting a little extra effort tonight to ease the tension in the room couldn't hurt.

 

 

* * *

_December 24, 1991_

In the dark, Castiel hovered in the corner of the bedroom, resting. All was quiet; outside, snow fell in gentle cotton clouds, lacing the hotel and the roofs with white and ice. In the far bed, Sam snored softly, and in the other bed, Dean lay wide awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, fingers toying with his little brother's Christmas gift—the amulet.

(There was power in it. It called to Castiel from across the room, pulling his attention.)

The evening had been full of reminisces and revelations. Tiring. Sam learning the truth about his father's work, Dean forced, after a very long time, to confront the absence of his mother—certainly not a happy Christmas Eve.

"Hey, Mom."

Dean's voice was very small, but still it attracted the angel's attention; he lifted his head and listened.

In the dim light leading in from the window, reflected by the snow and the damp streets, he saw that Dean's eyes were wet.

"It's Christmas. Dad's gone...Sammy's okay, though. He's alright. Alright kid."

In the far bed, Sam shifted in his sleep, as if alerted to the sound of his name; Dean clutched the tiny amulet in his fist and closed his eyes.

"I miss you, Mom."

Castiel considered touching the boy—sending him peace, as he'd been doing so much recently—or soothing him to sleep in the way that angels could; but something told him that now was not the time. He couldn't keep protecting his charge from pain and loss. The Plan didn't call for it.

Still...

He remained where he was. He listened to Dean whisper himself to sleep, whisper to his mother, wherever she was. It seemed to comfort him, eventually, and he drifted off holding the necklace tight in his fist.

Somewhere far away, the angel's brothers and sisters were singing, feathers and bells on high.

 

 

* * *

_August 6, 1998_

Dean had, of course, had sex before. Many times, in fact, with girls he then tossed to the side as if they were burger wrappers or beer bottles. (He was integral to the Plan, but that didn't mean he was without his sins.)

There was something different about this one, though, Castiel felt—she had the air of one who stuck around for a while.

Slightly embarrassed, the angel kept his eyes averted as his charge and the yoga teacher (Lisa was her name) assumed positions he'd never imagined humans could make. Not that he spent his spare time imagining such things—feeling guilty for even considering the notion, Castiel mentally rebuked himself, decided that Dean really didn't need watching while he was—er— _otherwise engaged_ , and excused himself to the front yard.

It was dark and windy, and a few stray raindrops slipped right through him. There was a mixture of foreign emotions in his chest—he thought, and identified them as embarrassment, annoyance, and—jealousy?

The ethereal equivalent of a blush spread through his essence. No. Jealousy couldn't be right.

Jealousy happened when there was desire involved, didn't it?

And he was an angel. That couldn't be right.

The seed of doubt remained even after he'd convinced himself otherwise.

 

 

* * *

_September 17, 2004_

Tension reigned absolute within the cramped confines of the Impala. The cell phone that Dean held in his hand might as well have been a time bomb.

Castiel waited, biting his nonexistent lip, waiting for the moment to come and pass.

Dean sighed. Bit his own lip. Pressed two buttons (that made no sense whatsoever to the angel in the back seat), hesitated, and then pressed the green one.

The faint call-in-progress tone chirruped, rhythmically, through the car's interior.

At a loss, Castiel simply waited.

 _He won't pick up_ , he thought, wishing he could speak aloud and spare Dean the disappointment.  _He's moved on. Your lives are different now._

One tone. Two...three...four...

" _Hi, this is Sam Winchester. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you leave—"_

Dean snapped the phone shut and threw it across the seat; it bounced silently to a stop, and the glow of its screen blinked away.

The angel wanted nothing more than to touch Dean's shoulder, tell him that it wasn't his fault, that Sam was bound— _by the Plan—_ to go his own way, to leave for Stanford and leave the life.

Instead he abandoned Dean to his disappointment and his anger, alone in the Impala. After all this time, his strongest emotions were too much for the angel to bear.

They made him question what was right.

 

 

* * *

_November 10, 2005_

The place was tainted. Castiel could feel the Reaper somewhere nearby, biding its time, waiting for the next summons. It made him uneasy.

But here, at least—in the dining room of the faith healer Roy Le Grange—he felt at ease. The man truly had the spark of holiness in him, and that always made the angel feel better.

He stood near the china bureau on the far wall, listening contentedly to the conversation. The house, despite the lingering taste of the Reaper in the air, was calm, warm, safe—Dean, he felt, though confused, was relieved here.

"Can I ask you one last question?" Dean said.

Castiel looked up.

"'Course you can," said the healer, smiling.

"Why?" said the angel's charge. "Why me? Out of all those sick people, why save me?"

Castiel smiled to himself. He may have only imagined it, but he thought that Roy's eyes—blind and unseeing—drifted in his direction, at the corner of the bureau.

"Well," said Roy—eyes drifting away again, smile remaining—"like I said before, the Lord guides me. I looked into your heart and you just...stood out from all the rest."

"What did you see in my heart?"

"A young man with an important purpose," said the healer.

He paused. And this time Castiel was sure of it: his white, cataracted eyes looked straight at him, and Roy Le Grange nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if saying,  _you've done well with this one._

"A job to do," he continued. "And it isn't finished."

Dean looked up at the healer, bemused.

Behind him, Castiel returned the nod that Roy had given him, as if to reply,  _you don't know how right you are._

 

_  
_

* * *

_April 27, 2007_

_It's too much. It's too much._

The night was thick with clouds, air humid and turgid, but the angel swept through it all without resistance, squinting his eyes shut and wishing he had hands to put over his ears, to shut out Heaven's whispers.

_It's too much. It's too much!_

He'd never known sorrow like this. So he was fleeing—unable to stand the sight of his charge standing at that crossroads, negotiating with the filth that haunted that place, dealing cards for his brother's life. And above, the angels were talking, murmuring about the contract that was about to be formed, murmuring about the next move—as if Dean's life was a chess game! As if he and his brother were mere pawns without emotion or thought! It was unbearable, unacceptable—

_It's too much!_

He wheeled through a storm cloud somewhere over Nebraska, and at the same moment he felt, far away, a pang like a knife wound—the image of his charge kissing the Crossroads Demon filled his head for one split, agonising second, and Castiel stopped short amidst the lightning and the rain.

He looked back toward South Dakota, tossed by the wind, surrounded by the approving whispers of Heaven ( _it is the Plan, the Plan is good_ ), and felt more lost and sad and confused than he ever had before.

 

 

* * *

_May 2, 2008_

His soul was snatched away like light at dusk, screaming and struggling, ravished between the jaws of the hell-hounds like so much unwanted meat.

And the angel could not tear his eyes away though they were heavy with unseen tears and pain, horrible pain within his chest—for even now, he could not leave his charge, though soon he would be beyond his reach, far, far away from all grace and light—and he told himself, over and over, trying desperately to believe it, trying desperately not to smite the dogs of Hell where they stood and cradle that poor ravaged soul in his arms, repeating endlessly,  _the Plan is good, the Will is good, and all of this will be made right; the Plan is good, the Will is good, and all of this will be made right—_

 

_  
_

* * *

_You will raise the soul of Dean Winchester from the Pit,_ said the whispers of Heaven _; you will fight through the ranks of the damned and the diabolic, and you will lift him from his chains and guide him to the light._

_This is the Plan. The Plan is good._

__This is what you were made for, Castiel._ _

 

 

* * *

_September 18, 2008_

_In the unending cacophony, something changed._

 

_  
_

* * *

_September 18, 2008_

Battle-weary, bedraggled, wings tattered and wounded, finally the angel touched down among the dangling tortured souls and the rusted, straining chains; surrounded by the sounds of terror and agony, he had eyes only for the face gazing up at him—familiar and broken, and the angel felt a wave of love and sorrow wash over him like grace itself.

"I'm here," he whispered, to that vacant, ravished face; and he pulled away the chains that bound Dean Winchester to the torments of Hell, and held his spirit close. "I've come for you. You are saved."

"Who are you?" came a weak whisper in his ear, as his charge—this man he'd watched and loved and cared for all these years, all this long and weary life—clutched him tight, as if desperate for safety.

The angel placed a hand on his shoulder, and the heat of the Pit seared their false flesh together, as they took off from the floors of Hell, upward toward the dawn.

"You know me," said Castiel; "you always have"—and they fled the screams and sobs, leaving white light and feathers in their wake.

 

 

* * *

_September 20, 2008_

"Look, pal, I'm not buying what you're selling. So who are you, really?"

"I told you."

"Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"

"Good things do happen, Dean."

"Not in my experience."

"What's the matter?"

A pause; for a moment they stared at one another.

Dean did not recognise him. Castiel understood that much. He'd known it even as they'd left the grasping fingers of Hell together—no. Dean did not know him.

But Castiel knew  _him_.

"You don't think you deserve to be saved."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because God commanded it," said Castiel—certain, for once, that now, at this moment, the Plan was good indeed. "Because we have work for you."


End file.
